


Three's Company

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Eventual Polyship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Indebted reader, Multi, Nymph reader, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-07-28 10:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16240127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: You're bound to two very powerful beings, but will your nature interfere with working off your debt?





	1. M&M's and Interruptions

**Author's Note:**

> Kallisti is greek for beautiful / "my pretty."
> 
> For the purpose of this fic, some aspects of nymph lore will be pulled from Greek mythology and some will be me taking creative liberties since they aren't established in Supernatural canon. 
> 
> This was also written as a tumblr request. Follow me there at @thewhiterabbit42.

_ Pa-tink _ .

 

A streak of red grazes your peripheral vision, but you don’t tear your gaze from the books in front of you.  You try to stay absorbed in your work, though you have to admit, the task  _ is  _ a little beneath you.  You don’t question your orders, however, and your eyes continue to skim down the trail of numbers on each page.  

 

_ Pa-tink _ .  

 

This time it’s green that goes soaring past, the small candy  _ tinking _ off the glass wall behind you before clattering to the floor.  

 

_ Pa-tink.  Pa-tink. Patink.   _

 

“Can I help you, choir boy?”  You still don’t give him the satisfaction of looking up, and bite your lip to keep your amusement from pouring out.  This might be the most patience you’ve ever seen Gabriel employ. He’s been at it a full twenty minutes, pinging M&M’s off the front of your desk in every direction  _ but  _ at you in a bid for attention.  

 

You draw things out a little longer, and the slight thrum that stretches across the space between you suggests he’s getting antsy.  The moment your vibrant eyes lift from worn and yellowed pages, he bounces one square between them. You flinch, your mask cracking as the beginnings of a smile break through.  

 

“I have work to do,” you remind him, unaware of how you naturally look at him through your lashes.  There’s a tension that’s been building since the beginning of the century, and the more you ignore it, the more it starts to spill over into your everyday interactions.  It doesn’t just seep out around him, but he’s one of the few beings you see with any consistency, and more and more, the energy peaks when he’s around. 

 

If Gabriel notices, it doesn’t show.  For once it’s not smug satisfaction splashing across fine golden features.  “I got all day, kallisti, and a whole bag of ammo,” he gestures to the bag of M&M’s in his lap, a playful twinkle in his gaze.  

 

He grins, and the gesture is too infectious to resist, though when your lips finally curve, it’s an intriguing clash of shyness and incredulity.   “Why do you call me that?”

 

The next piece he bounces at you hits you chidingly on the tip of the nose.  

 

“I believe your boss has the  _ willfully obtuse  _ position already covered.”  He baits his counterpart who, up until this point, has been willfully  _ ignoring  _ the entire interaction.  

 

Loki sets down the local newspaper he’s been perusing, serious orbs giving you each a measured look as if  _ you _ are also somehow to blame for the archangel’s shenanigans.  “Leave her alone. She’s busy.”

 

Gabriel snorts, eyes rolling so hard if he were mortal he would have pulled something.  “Let her have some fun for once.”

 

“You think  _ you _ could show her a good time?”  The god snarks without missing a beat.  You’ve noticed Loki’s been more testy lately, the reason as tightly guarded as most things he considers personal are.  You’re usually around enough to have some insight, but this shift is as baffling as his sudden need to disappear for periods of time, leaving Gabriel in charge of overseeing your debt.  

 

Something about _ this _ conversation is different, however.  You’re used to the standoffs, the marital-esque bickering.  Even their shenanigans don’t faze you anymore when an idea comes along that they align on.  This feels primal, and a warning ripples across your instincts that has you immediately stilling.  

 

You’ve rarely seen them get in a pissing contest with each other, probably because whipping it out to compare dick sizes solves nothing when your opponent is your complete carbon copy.  

There’s a millisecond where your curiosity gets the better of you, and you wonder if that theory is true.  That train of thought comes to a grinding halt when you remind yourself you’re digging through old transactions for a reason, and that maybe this is what has the god on edge.  

 

You drop your gaze back to your numbers.  Whatever’s happening is no longer your business, and if you’re smart, you’d worry more about yourself so that you might be free sometime this millenium.    

 

The tension continues to build as neither one says a word.  You assume it means they’re conversing telepathically. No one, not even timeless beings,  _ choose _ to sit within such strained silence.  Except hard headed idiots which, if you’re being honest, both have qualified as several times over. 

 

Just when the air feels so taut you expect it to snap, you find what it is Loki’s after.  You rise, walking over to his side where you wait patiently to be acknowledged. Seconds tick onward, and it’s abundantly clear both refuse to back down by looking anywhere but at the other.  The mischievous glint in Gabriel’s gaze suggests he might be doing this more to stir the pot than because he’s actually invested in winning. At this rate, you’ll all still be sitting there by the time humans have poisoned their own population to the point of extinction.  

 

“Let’s call this one a draw,” you announce, sinking down onto the armrest of Loki’s chair, your body boldly jostling his in an attempt to redirect his attention.  It works, his stare sliding sideways to what is now eye level with him, and out of the corner of your vision you catch the way Gabriel’s head gives a little tilt, brow slinking up with increased interest.  

 

“Here’s your problem,” you slide the first book in front of Loki’s face, and you can feel his magic seize hold of it before you’ve let it go.  The volume floats in front of you as you hold up the second one next to it, tapping a line halfway down the page. “According to this one, you gifted seven servants to Ares.  There’s no reason given, other than this symbol--” the god’s back goes so straight you almost forget what it is you’re doing “-- but, um, my copy shows only four were gifted, and it was for a lost wager.”  

 

Your breath catches for a moment as you realize he is not pleased.  You shrink away from him, your own muscles tightening as you draw into yourself.  You’re not afraid of him, not consciously. The reaction is so entrenched in instincts that have been bred into your line for generations that you don’t even notice it’s happening until you watch him frown. He focuses on you,  _ just  _ you, for a heavy moment, and you watch him make a conscious effort to relax.  

 

“This the only one?” You remember this tone from when you first met.  Careful. That quiet confidence he exudes bleeding into his words despite him trying to soften it.  

 

“No…” You flip the page.  “The deity changes, but anytime this appears,” this time there’s no outward reaction, but his presence fluctuates, overwhelming your senses,“there’s a discrepancy in numbers.”

 

You don’t recognize the rune-like symbol, but you hesitate to ask.  You’ve never seen him act this way, like there’s a riptide running through his veins, threatening to spill into the atmosphere and swallow everything in its path.  A glance toward Gabriel reveals him watching the two of you closely, suggesting he doesn’t have any more of a clue than you do. 

 

“In other words, someone’s been stealing from me.”  The gravity of his words reflects in his face, and the way ancient amber grows so cold it burns, you almost feel bad for whomever was stupid enough to cheat him.   _ Almost _ .  

 

“That would be my first guess.”

 

He lowers the first book to his lap, his hand relieving you of the other.  In an instant everything vanishes, replace by an appreciative and devastating smile.  “That’s my girl.” 

 

You don’t know how to describe what follows, other than it’s so very  _ him _ .  He pats your leg above the knee, high enough to feel intimate without pushing the line of impropriety.  It’s another step in a series of careful dances he does across every aspect of his life, as if there is no other purpose than to straddle the line of true neutrality.  

 

For the first time in ages, you watch him slip.  His palm rests a little longer than it should, his thumb sliding ever so slightly across the fabric of your dress.  You never imagined such a small movement could steal your breath the way it does, or how easy it is for your own nature to rush to the surface, drawn to the simple touch.  You were not meant for such captivity, even if it’s of your own choosing. 

 

You wonder if he recognizes this, conflict whorling along the edge of honeyed waters that have warmed with praise.  A similar sensation blossoms within you; there is nothing better than pleasing him, regardless of whether or not he’s the one who holds the key to your invisible bonds.  

 

A loud  _ clack  _ erupts from the coffee table in front of you, shattering the moment, and a rainbow of candy sweeps high into the air.  It gracefully arcs before dropping down on the brim of Loki’s hat, but they don’t bounce as expected. Somehow, the trajectory and motion hit just right for them to do a little spin, each spreading out at even intervals before landing in a neat little line. 

 

It’s a little  _ too  _ perfect, but the excited way the archangel jumps up from his chair, hands raised above his head as if he’s just accomplished the impossible, squashes any notion of calling him out.  

 

Gabriel’s cheer fills the room followed by the most ridiculous victory dance.  “How’s  _ that  _ for a hat trick?”

 

Loki’s hand retreats, and you wait until he has his fingers dug into the corner of his eyes before allowing a breath of a laugh.  

 

“You’re such a dork,” you chuckle, swiping the candy off the god’s hat before pelting them back in the archangel’s direction.  


	2. Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try to remember your place as Loki’s servant, but things become more problematic than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma ton kuna - by the dog / “Gosh” 
> 
> Vetrnætr - old norse winter festival

“You’re displeased,” Loki notices, eyes trying to catch yours as you finish the buttons on his blazer.  

 

It’s no surprise you’re not allowed out for  Vetrnætr .  He hasn’t allowed you to attend a single celebration  _ ever _ .  Your place has always been behind the scenes, among aging pages and dusty spines, keeping things in order and running smoothly while he conducts his business. 

 

You move your hands to the tie around his neck, keeping your focus on getting the knot just right.   

 

“It’s not my place to be displeased or otherwise.”  There’s a brisk nip to your words, similar to the frost that clings to the hotel windows and blankets the forest just outside the abysmal city you’re trapped in.  You yearn to feel it firsthand, to have the smell of fresh air fill your lungs, to feel the earth beneath your feet. 

 

Your frustration bleeds into your task, and your first attempt turns out lopsided.  

 

Curiosity simmers beneath the surface in the subtle arch of a brow, and he watches intently as you pull apart your failure and start over again.  When he speaks, his tone is patient, albeit chiding, like he’s talking to a child. “There’s no reason to be like that.” 

 

Your irritation inches higher.  You may not be as old as he is, but you are one of the last of your kind, a title not earned just because of his intervention.  You look up at him through long lashes, defiance burning bright in your stare, and the bastard actually has the audacity to smile.  

 

“There’s my girl.”  

 

You know him well enough to realize his praise is as genuine as it is a trick.  He’s trying to get you out of your mood, and praise is a great way to lift your spirits and get you to smile, but you aren’t quite ready to move on yet.  

 

You also find his nickname these days to be more grating than flattering.  You’re his, there’s no denying that, but you will never be  _ his _ .   

 

He has taken you everywhere over the last handful of centuries, kept you close, hidden from everyone other than his angelic counterpart.  Even when he’s disappeared, you know he’s never far. Yet, tonight's celebration, like all gatherings involving beings far above your station, will always be a place you are not wanted.   

 

The reminder stings, and brings a fresh wave of pouting, one that leaves sullen in the dust and heads straight for dejection.  You yank down harder than necessary on his tie, squeezing the knot too tightly this time. 

 

“ _ Ma ton kuna _ ,” you hiss, almost tearing the fabric in your haste to undo it again.

 

His hands cover yours for the briefest moment, the contact grounding you and sending you into a completely different kind of tailspin before he pulls away.  “I’ll get it.” 

 

You miss the twitch of his lips, and the way his eyes warm with mirth at the irony of not wanting to be treated like a child and cursing like one.  It’s a good thing. Otherwise, you might start cursing  _ him _ .  

 

The invigorating rush from his touch vanishes the moment his fingers do. The loss of him  _ and _ your task leaves you feeling worse than before; the icing on a cake that may as well have  _ useless  _ written across the top of it.  

 

You know you’re being ridiculous.  In your defense, however, you are dying.  Slowly unravelling, a stitch at a time, the longer you stay caged.  

 

With a sigh you move away from him, turning your attention to the other suits you laid out for him to choose from.  You pick them up one by one, noting how they’re nearly identical save for the color. For a god of chaos, he’s a being entrenched in habit; a walking contradiction if you’ve ever seen one.  

 

Once they’re neatly put back in his closet, you move toward the large scenic window that spans the entire wall.  His magic hums softly from within it, working hard to maintain the illusion, while the outside still retains the original depressing, peeling paint.  You look out across the sea of lights, your eyes fixing beyond the manmade structures, beyond the breadth of human sight, gazing on the very things whose whispers can be heard even amongst the din of civilization.  

 

You close your eyes, head canting as you narrow your focus.  Beyond the city limits is another symphony, one whose chorus is as desperate as the underlying thrum in your veins.  It sings of simmering fury, of fading glory and decaying fields. It too, wilts, held hostage and tainted in ways that make your own captivity seem like paradise.  

 

A raspy voice cuts through the clarion call, and in a blink you’re back in your present predicament.  “This is for your own good.” 

 

On some level, he’s right, but on so many others he misses the mark.  it wounds as much as angers. Your silence tells him as much, as does the way you keep your back to him, arms folding across your chest in quiet rebellion.  

 

He exhales a steady stream of exasperation through his nose, moving close enough to you until his presence tingles along your skin, though a respectable gap remains.  “This isn’t about tonight, is it.” 

 

It is as much as it isn’t, but you don't know how to tell him that.  So you do what you always do when intelligence fails. You close your eyes, allowing what truly rules you to rise to the surface, seizing hold of your tongue for a moment, and one moment only.  

 

“I miss it.”  

 

The quiet that follows is heavy as you work on pushing everything back beneath the surface, packing it away in neat little boxes that get harder to close each time you allow it to breathe.  You’re not sure what Loki’s doing. You’re afraid to even look. He feels as still as stone, his energy chaotic and somehow contained, and a long pause rests between you. 

 

“The forest,” he finally says.  

It’s not  _ just _ the forest.  You miss everything.  Grass. Leaves. Sun. Darkness.  You crave the way they feel against your skin.  The tickle of the breeze on your face.  _ Freedom.   _

 

You don’t tell him that.  There’s a good chance you are freer than any other servant, not just under his employ, but anyone’s, and an even bigger possibility you’d be dead by now had someone else found you, or  _ worse _ .    

 

You nod in response, not because words elude you, but because it’s a half-truth at best, and you know better than to lie to him.  

 

“Soon,” he promises, and while Loki is a being of his word, this one rings hollower than the rest.  It’s been _ soon _ for a decade now, but he never takes you anywhere other than hotel after hotel.  The only reason you haven’t lost your mind, or your control, is because what he creates resonates with the very thing you need rather than echoes with its deathrattle, as all elements of human construction do.  

 

It’s still not enough, however, and he knows it.  You can feel it in the way his presence shifts, making space for yours, as he goes back to getting ready.  It’s in the slow, measured stalk he does back and forth behind you as you watch his reflection in the window.  Each time he moves, its seemingly with intent. From his cufflinks on the dresser, to his shoes across the room, back again for his hat.  

 

Yet, you know his appearances are often deceiving.  Every movement, every remark, every facet of his personality he displays serves a purpose, and his need to pace while getting ready does not bode well.  

 

There are few things, in your experience, that unsettle him.  

 

“Will she be there?”  You ask, even though you know it’s not your place, and the question continues to burn even after it’s left your lips.  It sizzles through the silence that settles between you as he halts. 

 

There’s a sudden chill in the air.  You can’t tell whether it’s from him or if the cold concrete of this city, and all the others, has finally seeped beneath your skin.  The resulting goosebumps have you shivering, your arms reflexively wrapping around yourself, and your hands rub along your arms, trying to impart some warmth.  

 

You’re bold enough to overstep, but not enough to see his immediate reaction.  Your eyes drop to the streets below, and you do your best to pretend that you’re watching the hustling flow of traffic, even though it barely registers.  You don’t hear him move behind you, but you feel every inch between you that disappears in slow, stalking steps. Each one brings a heightened, heady pulse that vibrates through your being until he’s standing right there again, too close and yet not close enough.  

 

You’re not sure where the suit jacket comes from, only that it’s his.  Dark blue with white pinstripes always means business. You’re not sure what it does in regards to you or this moment.  

 

He drapes it over you, palms resting for a moment on your shoulders.  

 

“Do I need to worry?”  His question lingers as does his hands.  His grip is firm, pushing the fringe of possessive.  You couldn’t belong to him any more than you do right now; your soul chained to him, ensconced in his scent as his energy swirled around you.   

 

There’s both an instinctual calm and a clamoring that sweeps over you.  If Loki is anything, it’s safety that borders on things too close for comfort.  It beckons to your nature, causing it to rail a little harder against your restraint as it tries to rise up and meet his touch.

 

One day, this careful dance of yours is going to shatter, but not tonight.  Not anytime soon, if you can help it.

 

“Do  _ I _ ?”  You look up, meeting his eyes indirectly in the glass, missing the glow in your own reflection that burns around the edge of your irises. 

 

He frowns; a thoughtful gesture that weighs on his mask, causing darkness to bleed through the edges.  You expect a chastising reminder that the only thing you need to worry about is your duties, or to be put in your place with a cold  _ not your concern _ .  

 

“Sigyn is problematic at best, but not dangerous.”  His admission catches you off guard, as does the quiet reassurance that follows.  “You needn’t concern yourself with her.” 

 

You’re tempted to say you’re not the one you’re worried about, but there’s still some part of you that remembers your place.  

 

Until a stray thought enters your mind and sends all rational thought to the wayside. 

 

“As your wife, doesn’t she own me as well?”  

 

You’ve never asked the specifics before now.  You’ve never had a reason to. At least, one you’ve never known.   

 

“You.  Needn’t.  Worry.” 

 

His power surges into the surrounding space, threatening to drown you and everything in its path.  It pulls you under, smothering your lungs, holding them hostage for a few brief moments in which time itself almost stands still.  

 

In a breath, it releases.  There’s just as much of him still in the room, but it’s not as wild and unrestrained as the initial burst.  

 

You avert your eyes from his reflection with an obedient nod.   “My apologies.” 

 

Shame colors your cheeks.  You know better than to push him, to be this bold and ungrateful.  He has taken care of you and tended your needs more generously than others would.  

 

No matter how many times you tell yourself this, it doesn’t stop the ache that sings through your veins, whispering hushed but tempestuous words of mutiny.  

 

You turn your head, catching him from the side of your vision.  You’re unaware of how the movement brings you closer, your hair grazing the tip of his nose as your energy takes back it’s lost ground and washes over him.  “You should go.”

 

Neither one of you move.  

 

His hands slide over your shoulders, moving down your arms, fingers pressing ownership into your flesh.  He inhales, one long deep breath that has your own catching in your throat. 

 

The uneven cadence in your chest has nothing to do with how unnerving he can be.  He will protect you. He has for centuries, against threats you’re sure you can’t even imagine.   

 

You wonder who will protect  _ him _ if one of them is you?

 

“ _ Loki. _ ”  There’s a tremor beneath your tone you can’t control, but you manage to quell it, infusing more authority than you actually have into the rest of your words.  “You’re going to be late.”

 

This silence is like a vacuum, filled with absence, of sound, of presence,  _ everything _ .  It makes your ears ring and puts you on edge in a way you haven’t been in centuries.  For a moment, you’re afraid. You’re not sure of what, but he must pick up on how the sentiment strikes hard and fast in you, and his touch vanishes, the rest of him dematerializing out of your peripheral vision.  

 

He’s never left so abruptly, and without him, you deflate.  You take a long, shuddering breath, pulling his coat tighter around yourself before staring off into the distance once again.    

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel shows up and does what he does best.

You wonder if Gabriel knows you can sense him.  Not so much his energy. He keeps that off the grid so well even your most concerted efforts can’t uncover it, and you’ve come to realize there must be some element of magic involved to help hide him.  

 

Still, there’s something about his presence that registers.  It alters the atmosphere in ways you don’t understand. It’s not a physical change. You can’t detect it with your eyes, but your other senses wake up when he’s near, as if shaking off a long sleep, and everything feels brighter.   

 

He doesn’t announce himself, and you don’t acknowledge him.  You’re in the middle of reorganizing Loki’s office, something you’ve meant to get to for weeks.  More importantly, you’re not done moping yet, and you know the moment the archangel realizes you’re in a sour mood, he’ll not only try to drag you out of it, but succeed.  

 

He gives you space, allowing you to work in silence while he lingers.  The absence of him even when he’s there is just as distracting as Loki’s overbearing presence.  Part of you wishes Gabriel would leave, while another doesn’t want to be alone. 

 

The dissonance only inflames your irritability, and you shove a text onto the shelf so hard the entire bookcase jostles.

 

It’s the opportunity he’s been waiting for, his body suddenly rounding the side of the desk as he saunters up beside you.  “What did..,” he pauses, reading the label along the spine. “The death records of the Athenian temple for Aphrodite ever do to you?”  

 

The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s pulling it back off the shelf to verify that’s what it actually is. 

 

“Why do we even have this?” He asks, slamming the book shut before waving it in front of you.

 

“What exactly do you do around here, again?”  You snatch it back from his hand, and your barb earns you a pointed look.  

 

To be fair, if he doesn’t want you asking questions you know the answer to, then neither should  _ he _ .  

 

“Bother beauties like yourself and look good doing it?”  The smile he gives you  _ is  _ devastating, and you’re already responding.  Your mood and lips lift around the edges as he leans closer, brows waggling.  

 

Without thinking, you place your palm over his face, smothering his charm as you playfully give him a push.  “Put that away.”

 

He bats your hand to the side, amusement dancing across his features.  “I saw that smile. Don’t try to hide it. I see  _ all _ .”  

 

Clearly  _ not _ , but you imagine he could if he opened his eyes a little more.  Your thoughts stray to recent lore you just  _ happened  _ to be perusing on archangels.  Special ordered. In no way related to your current company.  Just like your current hotel has  _ nothing _ to do with it being close enough to a library to make a reasonable request (with a reasonable tip) for staff to make a pickup for you.

 

He tilts his head, leaning against the bookshelf, and his stare shifts to something more appraising.  “What’s that look for?” 

 

With Loki you tend to pause before answering, mindful of the words you choose, but with Gabriel the need to censor yourself doesn’t exist.  He may look like your boss, but he holds no key to your bonds. 

 

Besides, there’s nothing you can say that’s any worse than what you’ve heard come out of  _ his  _ mouth.  

 

“I was just wondering what your true form was like.”  

 

His brows raise in tandem, and for a moment he looks on the verge of a serious answer.  Any hope is dashed the moment a familiar twinkle enters his gaze. 

 

“If you’re really interested, how about a trade: I’ll show you yours, you show me mine?”  

 

You’re not even sure what that means, but instead of trying to make sense of it, you simply roll your eyes.  You don’t need to play his game to notice what lies beneath the innuendo; a slow simmering curiosity that builds the longer you know him.  

 

You imagine he’s seen just about everything in his long life, but you’re certain he’s never received a full blown whammy from something like you.  Some can harness it. Some lose their mind. Most simply muddle through it or succumb. 

 

You have no idea how he’d react.  You’ve never tried unleashing your magic on the divine.  Archangels, in particular, are a wild card. Their grace is powerful, completely unknown to you and many others.  Heaven’s children tended to keep to themselves over the ages, and into their corresponding worshippers’ territories.  Gabriel is a rarity on so many levels. 

 

Which includes the fact that bad pickup lines actually sound  _ good  _ coming from him.  Not that you’ll ever let him know that.

 

You snort.  “Does that actually work?”  

 

He lowers himself onto the edge of the desk, his facade dropping and revealing the casual veneer you’re accustomed to.  “You can’t tell me you’ve never used a cheesy line before.” 

 

You’ve dropped many over the ages, back when Loki used to take you into civilization.  He  _ used  _ to allow you to mingle among humans under his distant but watchful eye, so long as it was far, far away from other supernatural beings.  

 

The irritation from earlier bubbles up inside you, and you fix the archangel with a direct stare.  

 

He winces before you even snap at him.  

 

“And when do you suppose I’d have the chance to do  _ that _ ?”

 

Part of you wants to be furious at the ever closing collar around your neck.  Part of you realizes you’ve long since lost the taste for meaningless encounters, so there’s little point in being let out.  At least not among society. 

 

“Is that why you’re not yourself lately?”

 

He’s noticed.  You’re not sure why this revelation stuns you, but it does.  Loki’s usually the one keeping close tabs on you.  _ Too _ close these days, you guess, which is why he can’t see the forest for the trees, or your increasing need for either of them.  

 

Gabriel has been the one hovering, however.  While his counterpart often equates him to the annoying fly buzzing about one’s head, you find him amusing, increasingly endearing, and distracting in ways that have your heart rate climbing and your stomach fluttering whenever you make eye contact. 

 

That, combined with your surprise, has you fumbling with what to say.  He picks up on this as well, but this time is different. Everything about him goes eerily still.

 

“Just because I act shallow, doesn’t mean I always am.”  

 

Merciful Zeus, he’s offended.  You’ve seen him angry, bitter, but rarely like you’ve plucked a feather straight out of his wings.  

 

The darks of his eyes grow wider, slowly eating away at the edges of gold, and you realize what the problem is.   

 

“Gabriel, you should keep your distance.”  You shrink away from him, allowing time for the quiet assertion to sink in as you turn and pretend to wipe lingering dust off some of the books.  

 

His brow furrows before spiking again.  “He hasn’t let you out at all, has he?” There’s no time to answer as he runs a hand through his hair.  “That sonofa --”

 

You’ve only heard Enochian a handful of times.  Loki forbids it from being spoken, but there are times, like now, the archangel slips.  You have no idea what he’s saying, other than it can’t be very flattering. 

 

He’s still muttering when he jumps off the desk, grabbing you without warning.  “C’mon.” 

 

There’s a jolt before his hand even closes around your wrist, energy sparking against your skin and sending a shockwave of effervescence through your system.  A dizzying rush follows, the room whirling as the sharp, pristine contrast of black and white melts into muddied, earthen tones. 

 

You can smell it before you see it;  _ know  _ on an instinctual level where you are before foliage springs up around you.  You’re far from the city, but not completely off the map. You can feel the lingering imprints of human energy, but it’s background noise against the vast symphony of flora and fauna that greet every one of your senses like a long lost friend.  

 

You let out a breath, watching the way it crystallizes on the air, before wide eyes take in your surroundings.  You’ve missed the vibrant colors of autumn, arriving just in time to catch the last vestiges of life echoing in faded, ruddy, and dull tones.  What remains is still breathtaking in its own way; a quiet contrast to the neutral browns and smatterings of green that still remain. 

 

The natural beauty of this place becomes lost, however, against your panic.  

 

“You need to bring me back,” you insist.  “I don’t have permission to be here.”

 

You don’t have permission to be _anywhere_ save Loki’s suite, and he’s already issued his judgment on this matter not two hours ago.  He’ll be livid if he finds out you left, but it’s what remains when his pride retreats and the flames of his fury have burned out that worries you. 

 

“ _ Please _ .”  

 

Gabriel’s taken aback by your words, and you realize you’ve never seen what disappointment looks like with  _ him _ .  

 

Anxiety overlays your misgivings, creating new ones, sending conflict careening against the constant reminder that everything you’ve craved is close enough to touch.  You forget yourself, eyes closing as you breathe deep, letting it all sink beneath your skin, if only for a moment. 

 

Gabriel whistles, low and long.  “That right there, kid? Exactly why we’re staying.”

 

You’re head’s not above enough water to realize he’s called you a name he reserves for moments of condescension or great sympathy.  All you’re aware of is need, crashing heavily over you, sweeping away your resolve with the tide and leaving a flurry of  _ what ifs  _ in their wake.  

 

There’s a slow, creeping euphoria as the fibers in your being extend, reaching out to reconnect their fraying ends to organic, sturdy threads.  Your arm extends, fingertips seeking out a solid source closest to you. Your feet are already moving, guided by a sense that exists only for your kind, until your hand connects with chill kissed bark and everything suddenly stills.  

 

There is peace.  It’s in the slumber radiating beneath your palm and the small pearl of life tucked away from the cold.  It resonates, with the rays of summer that have kept its leaves well fed, with the rain that’s kept its innermost layers nourished.

 

You lean forward, your dress snagging at intervals along its rough body.  You rest your cheek against it, drinking in its silent conversation with everything you have.  It calms and energizes you in a way you nothing else has and you imagine never will.

 

The moment morphs into something different as another presence shifts closer to you, one that is unmistakably vibrant and demands to be acknowledged.  

 

“By all means, get whatever you need to out of your system,” he tells you. “But I gotta say, if you start humping that tree, I am  _ outta  _ here.”  

 

You open your eyes, pupils large and owlish, and you let out a small laugh that borders on manic.  

 

Gabriel peers around the side of the tree, his own stare dilating in response.  “Holy  _ shit _ , you look about as high as the first time we took you out.”

 

_ Out _ .  You’re out without permission.  The reminder collars your innate drives, putting them back into check so you can think again.

 

“We should go.”  Resignation has you deflating against the sturdy maple.

 

“Like hell we are,” he insists, hands on his hips.  It’s the most serious you’ve seen him since you offered yourself as a distraction to get him (and Loki by association) out of hot water in Beijing ages ago.  

  
He didn’t listened to you then, either.  

 

“Just who do you think he leaves in charge when he’s away, hmmm?”  He questioned. “And as temporary head honcho, I am ordering you to be here.” 

 

Power  _ is _ shared.  Equal? No, not quite.  Not in all matters, but hope catches in your throat nonetheless.  

 

You try to recall the exceptions.  He never deals with  _ her _ .  He rarely deals with you.  Not in official capacity. Not often.  Not without orders.

 

It’s clear the trickster in front of you is not used to being the leash holder, and he begins to shift beneath the weight of your silence.  “...if you want to, that is.” 

 

You continue to stare at him, and it’s as if you’re seeing him for the first time.  

 

Gabriel, beneath the hijinks and human vessel, is as unfathomable as his true form; an infinite being, so vastly powerful, and yet he is the softness to the hardened edges that is his shared identity.  He has the power to take your freedom as much as to let you taste it, and yet, his offer is based on what you want  _ and  _ need instead of what serves him most.  

 

The gesture has you on the verge of tears or kissing him.   You ride the impulse halfway, releasing your wooden anchor to slip your arms around him. 

 

He goes stiff, your enthusiasm knocking him back a step as you leap at him.  A part of you knows -  _ shouldn’t touch -  _ but he always has a way of making you forget yourself. 

 

“Yeesh, you must be really desperate if you’re this grateful for fresh air.”  He eases his awkward reaction with a good-natured tease and a small pat on your back before extricating himself from your grip.  

 

“Go on,” he gestures toward the forest.  “Enjoy, before the clock strikes midnight and we both turn into pumpkins.”  

 

_ Midnight _ .  

 

His eyes narrow intently.  “What?”

 

You have no idea what’s showing on your features, only that it’s confusing the hell out of him by the look on his.  

 

“Can we really stay out until then?”  Your voice is uncharacteristically timid, a fail-safe chiding with a distant  _ too much _ the moment the words have left your mouth.    

 

You immediately regret it.  You shouldn’t ask for more, not when he’s being so generous already.  A brief but intense debate sparks, the outcome muting the brightness in your eyes.  

 

“Never mind.”  You shake your head, ashamed to have even thought of pushing, let alone saying anything.  

 

A brief touch along the side of your face brings you back again, though you hold off on looking up.  You don’t want him to see your disappointment, to mistake it for being thankless. 

 

“Sweetheart, we can stay out as long your heart desires.”  

  
His answer sweeps you completely out to sea, gratitude restoring the brightness to your gaze.  This time you  _ do  _ kiss him, lips catching the corner of his in thoughtless haste.  You dance away just as quickly, twirling through the leaves, your excitement blinding you to the way every molecule in his being grinds to a halt and how he deliberately keeps his distance for the next few hours.  


End file.
